AfterHours
by Angelus1
Summary: In the dark and quiet corners, Cuddy knows that he will be waiting for her.


Spoilers: None.

Disclaimer: Greg House, Lisa Cuddy, _House, MD_, and all respective characters are the property of David Shore, Bryan Singer, Bad Hat Harry, and Twentieth Century Fox. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: My first House fic, FINALLY!! And I actually think that I did a decent job on the dialogue - which, believe me, is a BIG issue for me. Please tell me how you think I did, good or bad!

* * *

**1986**

Lisa's got five dollars in her pocket and not nearly enough alcohol in her system; deciding on her next drink is a complicated process. The Delta Sigma Phi basement is packed, and she gets shoved and jostled every time someone tries to get to the bar.

Joining the sorority - _A-D-Pi, Diamond Sisters forever!_ - had been her mother's idea. Jennifer Cuddy is exactly what a service sorority girl should be: friendly, perky, not too wild, but not too dull either. Lisa is slightly insecure, wholly outspoken, and very much not her mother. But the Jewish guilt knew exactly when to rear its ugly head, and so here she is in a sea of tiny blondes feeling just as out-of-place with her crooked nose and flyway curls as she did the day she rushed.

The bartender looks to be about her age, but there's something in his eyes that makes her wonder if she's undercounted by about fifteen years; a study in contrasts with the boyish brown curls that flop across his forehead. Lisa watches him mix drinks for her peers: Amaretto Stone Sour, Sex on the Beach, Alabama Slammer. His fingers are long and lean; deft, graceful, and almost delicate as he measures, pours, shakes. A music major, maybe - he's got the tortured scowl down pretty good. When the other clamoring co-eds have been served, he turns to address her directly.

"What'll it be?" he demands, eyes flashing in the dimly-lit room. Despite her hang-ups about fraternity boys, it would be ridiculous to deny that she's attracted to him. Then again, that might just be the alcohol talking. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Lisa slams the five onto the sticky surface of the bar.

"Long Island," she says firmly. It might have her hunched over the toilet before the night is over, but it's worth it. Grumpy Bartender, on the other hand, seems dead-set against her plan.

"Long Islands are 6," he informs curtly. Lisa pouts - a well-trusted method of persuasion.

"Oh, come on - it's just a dollar," she wheedles.

"Let me guess - this is the part where you lean forward a bit more, bat your eyelashes, and tell me you're sure you can think of a way to make it up to me?"

His acerbic sarcasm and superior smirk really shouldn't turn her on this much. It _must_ be the alcohol.

"_Please_," she scoffs with a roll of her eyes. "My ass is a much better diversionary tactic than my chest."

"Oh, yeah?" His words have lost their patronizing tone - he's genuinely intrigued. With renewed vigor, Lisa adopts her own smirk.

"Tell you what," she says, patting five of those mesmerizing fingers with her own. "You spot me that dollar and I'll give you a nice, long look." Grumpy Bartender chuckles.

"No dice," he says. "You've gotta move away from this bar sometime - I'll get a free peek no matter what."

"Yeah, but then you wouldn't get to see me swagger."

"And that's something I want to see?" Lisa's smile is demure; smug in the knowledge that she's won.

"Trust me - you do." Grumpy Bartender takes the five and starts mixing. "What, you're not gonna make me demonstrate first?" One part rum, one part gin, one part vodka, one part tequila, and a shot of Coke. The red plastic cup is cold, and leaves a trail of condensation behind as he slides it across the bar towards her.

"Your rack was well worth the dollar - I just wanted to see what else you were willing to offer." Lisa's jaw drops. Grumpy Bartender lifts the cup, touching the straw to her tongue. "Close your mouth or do something useful with it," he advises. As Lisa seethes, he turns to his next customer. But when she moves away from the bar to rejoin her friends, she feels his eyes follow her.

She puts the swagger into her step anyway.

The drink goes down fast. Grumpy Bartender knows his stuff, she'll give him that much. It's sweet and smooth on the way down, with barely a taste of alcohol. She's just sucking down the dregs, tuning out her sisters' inane conversation and chewing on the half-melted ice cubes, when a fresh cup is pressed into her hands. Lisa looks up to see Grumpy Bartender smirking down at her. A quick glance shows that someone else is manning his post.

"This one's on me," he says. Lisa laughs, anger at his antics quickly forgotten thanks to the proximity of those piercing eyes and lazy smirk.

"The swagger was that good?" she teases. Grumpy Bartender makes no effort to hide the way he leers at her.

"The swagger covered the second drink," he clarifies. "But, see, you forgot to tip me."

"Really," Lisa muses. "Well, then. We should do something about that." Grumpy Bartender is starting to look less and less grumpy, his lips curving into a genuine smile.

"I'm Greg, by the way," he offers, hand outstretched. Lisa takes it, meeting his unsurprisingly strong grip. His hand is warm and his eyes are sparkling down at her and maybe it's just the booze talking, but there's something about Greg that's undeniably compelling, and Lisa is hopelessly intrigued. She scoots closer to him in the dingy basement, feeling his long, lean body and the heat coming off of it. He twines his fingers in between hers and pulls her towards the stairs. It's late and Lisa doesn't have a clue where they're headed, but the night is suddenly wide open ahead of her and she's willing to follow wherever he leads.

* * *

**2006**

He's in her office again. She's all the way across the lobby but she can still make out the familiar shadow of his body huddled on her couch, his cane propped up against her desk. It's the fifth time this week.

"You are aware that you have your _own_ office, correct? One with an extremely comfortable chair that I let you go 100 over budget for?" Cuddy dumps a mountain of paperwork on her desk, but doesn't bother turning the lights on as she sifts through it.

"Cameron won't let me in until I answer last month's mail," House whines. He's stretched across the full length of the couch, an arm slung across his eyes - the very picture of suffering. There's a joke about a fainting couch just waiting to be made, but she's too tired to come up with anything clever right now.

"Imagine - expecting you to actually do your job," she responds dryly as she locates the files she needs.

"That's what I hired _her_ for!"

Cuddy removes her shoes and suit jacket, shoving House's legs out of the way to clear a place for herself to sit. He makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat, but it's more for show than anything else - they both know that she would never risk hurting him. She tucks her own legs beneath her, giving a sigh of contentment as she sinks into the leather.

House watches Cuddy as she fills out paperwork, and she pretends not to notice that he's watching. It's a familiar game. After a few minutes, he gets up and limps over to the desk to pick up a folder of his own. When he drops back onto the couch, he's noticeably closer.

"Just make sure you're putting down the right information," Cuddy warns. When they're alone, she's not allowed to mock him for being nice to her, but she usually can't let it go completely without comment.

"Damn, there go my plans to frame you for embezzlement," House retorts, but his voice holds no trace of its usual scathing mockery - after all this time, the snide comments have become a reflex.

The work logically goes faster with two people, but the late hour finds Cuddy's eyes drooping closed nonetheless. She pries them back open several times, her entire body jerking upright as she struggles to stay alert. Finally, House reaches over and takes the file from her hands. With a relieved sigh, Cuddy slumps against him. It's depressing at times, to admit that devoting her entire life to career has only led to long, lonely nights in her office. But as House's shoulder pillows her head, she falls asleep to the feeling of his muscles moving under her cheek as he continues with the paperwork, and she knows that this small comfort makes up for an awful lot. She'd be content to stay here if he asked.

He'll never ask; not even if he wants to. But she's staying anyway.


End file.
